


when worlds collide, and days are dark

by harbingers



Series: all the lovely monsters in our head [1]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Blood and Violence, M/M, Minor Injuries, Non-Sexual Intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:34:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28687983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harbingers/pseuds/harbingers
Summary: “Lee Donghyuck.” Chenle tells him later that night. Renjun covets the quiet want, the cutting gaze that cools down in a matter of minutes.Lee Donghyuck.A name that tastes like Venus de Milo, marbled and bronze glitter around his eyes, and Renjun chases away the keening wander.
Relationships: Huang Ren Jun/Lee Donghyuck | Haechan
Series: all the lovely monsters in our head [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2104860
Comments: 12
Kudos: 31





	when worlds collide, and days are dark

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to the assassin fic that has been rotting away in my docs for about a week and half :)  
> [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7GkgU4o7ENXvBV3DRt8a0y?si=CUWZN4VGSWuHpNaIUSfUbQ)

The weather is crisp and cold, reducing Renjun’s breath to huffs of hot air as he tucks himself into his seat at a table resting against the window. Yesterday the weather was hot and sticky, humidity causing Renjun’s clothing to adhere to himself while climbing the crumbling steps to the Tower of London. He's only been to England once before, and during that time, he’d resided in a gorgeous flat that outlooked Oxford City Center. Many early mornings were spent waking up to sunlight escaping the rooftops of the buildings, mahogany melting with chestnut to form the arches that stretch past the green fields and rolling hills.

In his hands, embracing the soreness in the tips of his fingers, he holds a steaming cup of herbal tea. It feels like suffocated warmth as it slides down his throat, like sitting in a cabin on the outskirts of Melbourne watching the sunset collect dust on the horizon.

Renjun wishes he could have gone sightseeing on a day with more pleasant weather but, unfortunately, he is only assigned to London for a few days. He mumbles fire-wicked curses at Jaemin under his breath. He would rather be spending his days in Moscow gouging on Pastila in a hotel room and ordering room service; three bottles of mulled wine that spill in velvet splatters on his white bed sheets as he indulges himself until daybreak. 

But instead, he lets his back hit the frame of the wooden chair he’s just plopped into. Renjun has some time to spare, so he beckons over the pretty waiter and orders a slice of raspberry lemon rose cake. _It’s on the house, s_ he convinces him, and he feels bad for a split second before he accepts. She takes her leave, and Renjun goes back to staring out the window to his right.

It’s a pretty spot, not as busy as Renjun’s been informed it usually is. It’s currently mid-afternoon— the perfect time to walk along the South Pier and order warm, fresh crepes by the seaside, sand filling his scuffed sandals as he enjoys the smell of salt and the melted chocolate running down his thumb. 

There’s so much nostalgia in one place, fond memories coming to the forefront of his thoughts. It’s almost ironic how Renjun remembers images that act as fodder for his bloodlust in replacement of late night motel visits. One image in particular, the renting of a Wall Street penthouse on, clutching a Heckler & Koch MP5 pistol, sitting on a stool across from the Secretary of the United States Intelligence’s office. One shot is all it takes— _bam_ —free-spirit instantly eating at his insides, the rush of closely watching his prey alive.

The handle of his canary tea cup perches on a neat dish in front of him, digging into the thick skin of his palm. Renjun snaps back into reality as the waiter finally returns with his cake, the treat on a simple plate and ready to be eaten. 

It isn’t but two minutes later when he hears footsteps approaching behind him.He’s almost ready to send the waiter away, satisfaction spilling across his face, but he halts as someone pulls into the empty seat across from him and asks a simple, “Do you plan on finishing that?” 

Renjun greets the male with a smirk and asks, “Has France not been treating you well?” He lifted his fork to take a light stab into the fluffy and moist sponge cake, opening his mouth to take a bite. 

Chenle throws an arm at the empty chair to his left, sliding his Saint Laurent sunglasses off the bridge of his nose, meeting Renjun’s gaze. “Leaving Jisung in Roussillon was the best option, he’s always favored the countryside,” He says, fidgeting to play with the multi-color sugar packets in the black container in the middle of the table.

Renjun draws an eyebrow, setting his fork before gesturing Chenle forward to try. “Are you sure leaving him alone is wise, surely it’ll be weeks at most before you’ll be on the run again.” Chenle expresses zero concern, masking his worries by shoving half of the cake Renjun had ordered into his face. 

“He can protect him himself.” Chenle answers, almost as if he was drawing and raising up his defenses in a house of cards, destined to fall down. Or perhaps it was in the shadows of Jisung that his words were laced with half-spite and uneasiness. 

He sweeps along the argument, letting Chenle finish his cake for him while sipping the rest of his tea, his eyes wander to the busy streets, filled with people enjoying the afternoon sunlight. People crowd the outside of the cafe, enjoying a mug brewed with coffee, and their voices carry throughout the inside. Renjun almost loses himself in the mundane centrics of daily life before returning to the scratch of metal hit the plate as Chenle finishes every bit of the cake. 

“Do you plan on staying in London?” 

Chenle gathers his sunglasses, readjusting them to their original position, and Renjun sees the hint the onyx tint of his eyes glimmer in the rim of the lenses before he pushes him to fully obscure his face. “The faster you get the job done, the faster I can report back to Jaemin-ssi” and he laughs ominously, “not everyone gets a free vacation.” 

Renjun is startled by his response, “I see, take care of yourself.” 

There’s a pause at the door, meticulous and swept away in the aftermath of a thunderstorm, ink on parchment, scratching away as destiny writes its own path. Chenle heaves a steady laugh, “Good-bye Renjun.” and he watches him disappear in the slip of the crowd migrating down the sidewalk.

Renjun calls for his check, and daylight pours into the window, fighting the subtle glow that brings humanity back alive, stealing him from the brink of death. He fights away the urge, drowning his lungs like monarch butterflies, settling in a field of Zinnia’s that scope Renjun’s chest like a microscope. Be careful, he may catch fire. 

So let him burn, if not in penitence then in fulfilled hunger. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


Now arrives the fun part of his job: In which Renjun begins to make his way out of the cafe as a stranger opens the door before his hands can push the lever. He steps sides to allow him to enter first, exchanging courteous nods. He runs a resilient hand through his target’s neck in the blink of an eye, silver meeting the future’s demise, two seconds quick to read death’s fortune. 

Renjun hears the drop of a body as soon as his feet step out onto the pebbled streets, and the spill of blood runs like a river, weaving a misguided boat along the Underworld and he hears a gut-wrenching scream for help. You get used to the feeling, first comes the guilt and remorse that splits your head in half as you bite the end of your tongue wondering if there’s a possible second chance at reviving the stranger whose life is held by your hands. 

Then comes the glory, as Renjun continues down the street, a crowd outside surrounds the outside of the cafe in bewilderment and panic. The same, young waiter who sold him lemon, raspberry rose cake earlier is fumbling to take out the phone from inside her apron to call an ambulance. It’s a shame, he thinks as he’s ten feet away from the crime scene, and screams build their way through his ears as it grows louder and the town square grows into disarray.

Renjun passes by Knightsbridge, he would’ve stopped by and bought a Cherry Danish from the fancy bakery, or purchased a fine bottle of Freya Birch Spirit to celebrate and board on his flight returning to Seoul. 

He chuckles to himself, letting his overcoat seep up in the afternoon sun, gazing down on his unblemished skin as Renjun listens to the silence. Remember that sound, peace recollecting itself in sober confinement, hands sticky with the tad bit of blood, reflecting like a pool of water on his palm and Narcissus’s statue ripples in greed. He stares, in marveled wonder, and wonders if he ever truly did make the right choice.

  
  
  
  


He feels like dead weight upon twisting his key into the lock of his hotel room, Renjun makes light of the darkness, giving him only a severe migrant from the drawn away curtains. He had left his room bare, and tucked together, the linen smelled fresh and he saw the ‘do not disturb’ sign he discarded earlier to allow entry for the staff to sweep through and clean. It was harder to divulge in post-operatives when he was a public area, but being in the privacy of his room, on the tenth floor with a balcony view of South Bank, he could taste the salt in his mouth, the wind drying out his eyes and the blistering sun peeling away at his skin. 

He rustles with the curtain line to draw the satin material together, and quickly turns on the desk light before leaping backwards into his bed. Renjun immediately lets out a groan of relief, wrestling with his heavy overcoat and throws it on the back of the chair next to the complementary desk.

The room service phone was only one arm over to his right that he could easily reach and grab, perhaps order himself a mandatory glass of champagne, but Renjun feels drowsy. As if he’s been sipping on the same mouthful of red wine, thickening like blood in his mouth as it swishes around in his mouth growing fouler every time it rebounds in the inside of his cheek. 

Renjun lifts his head up tenderly from up the bed, only to spot an orange envelope at the desk. Rolling his sleeves up, he swings himself up agile, and careful to approach around the thick case. “The hell?” he mutters, even in the comfort of his own hotel room he remains cautious, even if he was able to nail the exact longitude and latitude if a stranger did happen to be spying on him from the Bed & Breakfast across his own hotel it made no difference. Using a smaller, thinner but sharper blade stuck to the skin of his trousers he slices the flap of the envelope. 

Then, the same phone sitting on the bedside table rings and Renjun stumbles to hit the answer button. “You have one call from Cusco, Peru. Press 1 and say yes to accept the incoming line.” 

Renjun’s voice softens on command, “Yes.” 

He pushes the numbered, black button slowly as he is transferred over to the caller. “Did you receive the envelope?” A voice emerges on the side, and Renjun relaxes.

“Jeno.” he says, taken by surprise to hear his voice. He can hear the louds of cars honking, street life livening to its expectations as it blurs out Renjun’s own background noise— juvenile youth sharing a plate of hot, steaming fish and chips down by the boardwalk, laughter echoing from the top of a Ferris wheel. 

He could hear brittleness in his voice, calm and reposed, as he answered. “I take that as a yes. How many more days do you plan on staying in London?”

Renjun gives a short-lived laugh, amused by his polite insinuation. “The faster I leave, the better it’ll be. By evening, the nightly news will have the whole crime scene covered on every channel.” 

“I see,” Jeno says, “there’s one ticket to Venice boarding tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. The rest of the details are inside the envelope.” He asserts, and Renjun pulls out the contents inside: one plane ticket, two clear- high resolution photos of his next target and a tourist guide of Rome’s most favorable attractions. He wonders whose kind gesture it was to add that in. Renjun holds in a second laughter, balancing the weight of the phone between his ears as he shuts the envelope and tosses it aside. 

“How many days.” He asks. 

He can feel the subtle movement of a smile as Jeno chuckles. “You know what to do.” and pauses. And finally, London’s sunset graces Renjun’s back, taking an elegant leap in the face of his silhouette, will the truth carve a way for impeccable greed? In the restful splashes of carmine red, honeysuckle orange squeezes life out of the sky as it mingles with the rest of the colors in unison, bleeding away at Renjun’s shoulders. “And Renjun—” 

“Yes?” 

“Be careful, if you will?” And Renjun tilts his head back, submerging in the wound, a skeleton rusting in the ages of war and peace. London finishes him, blade by blade clashing like ghosted fate. It’s a shame, he thinks, to believe that anyone truly did care.   
  


Rome returns to Renjun after three years when he lands in Venice with a stiff back, and a cramp in his big toe. The train ride is sentimental, sitting in the first class breaking into a plate of _Sarde in saor,_ with a side glass of wine as he sits in the back of the train. Passing Venice’s countryside, he sees the villas in the distance, flirtatious mountains gaining sight as they fade in the distance and Renjun could smell the healthy soil, fertile greens reflecting in the river lilies beneath the under the train tracks view, overgrown grass grazing by. 

Entering the cityside of Rome, he remembers walking the market vendors of Mercato di Campagna Amica. Roaming around freely with Chenle five steps behind, fingers entangled with Jisung as he spoke gently, a set of copper-tinted Trussardi sunglasses cuffed into his polo shirt—twice unbuttoned in charismatic freedom. As if he hadn’t helped Renjun dump a dead body into a trash chute three hours ago. 

He’d been in the city for a month or so, employed for more leisurely business ruling over pleasure and sweeping the job fast in less than forty eight hours. On the second day, he’d been given permission to enjoy the rest of the month once succeeding in putting a .22 caliber inside Cecilio Volta’s forehead. Dead Center. He was an important former client to the many families managing the hundred of casinos in Venice, not important enough apparently as Renjun had let himself into back door leading to the piazza, feeling welcomed and overly delighted as he rested his weapon on the marbled deck watching his target usher himself cluelessly in his backyard. 

But that wasn’t important, the unsolicited memories piling together in his brain like a scrapbook, prepped and ready to be remembered at the draw of a hat. Renjun arrives in his room safely, keeping the lights dimmed low and throwing his luggage at the foot of his bed, to see a charcoal grey, slim fit suit wrapped in plastic hanging in the closet. Closing his eyes, he lounges back into the loveseat facing the double-paneled windows looking over Trevi Fountain. Intricately carved stone, cut grandeur with splendid care water flowing out of Oceanus, the god of water whose body is a mere tool for merciless natures undisposed in tortuous flounder. 

Renjun sits up, and decides to order room service to spend the rest of his early evening productive. Time stands slanted on the horn of double-wielded crowns fit for a ruler, and he likes the bitterness that sculpts with his throat. One painstroke meeting the flesh of canvas— mapping the stop of flow to the heart, pale, feeble skin like a renaissance painting, a blend of azurite and malachite tickling away at his throat. Battled unprovoked and a wash of eggshell white grows in a field of marigolds and Renjun bleeds in sangria wine. 

  
  
  
  
  


A scent of Rome remains, and he cuts up the fragments into individual pieces; easy to manage and minimalistic. Renjun has strolled the entire villa through and through, without being seen even if Jeno had provided him a blueprint of the entire space he enjoys touring the area himself and the party was flocked with less security then he presumptuously planned for. It makes his job much easier, as he inhales the foliage escaping down the main stairwell leading down the cobble path to the terrace where the majority of the guests had been located. 

He feels stiff, underwhelmed in his suit when the fabric pins to his skin like a thumbtack under Italy’s nighttime weather. He supposes there’s a dubious breeze that kisses the back of his neck, as he holds a glass of Limoncello with poised retribution. The art of conversation is a tongue twister that cradles on the barrel of a gun with fluency. 

Renjun runs his tongue with ease, speaking italian, it was one of the first languages he’d been taught next to his native language—Mandarin. He learned italian along with Korean from his studies as a child; locked in a study that slowly shrunk as time went by, pencil running through his palm every time he wrote and the blisters formed like an outline of a constellation; always leading towards his troubles and future endeavors. 

He gives a smile, clinking his glass, halfway empty with a nearby guest, all abrasive lines carved from man-made canals of raw beauty. Renjun knew he was charismatic, approachable; it’s the tipping point of his personality that draws a wise man’s fool closer to his last breath. It’s better to downplay his presence, if he’s not as noticeable then his escape will be smoother. The weight of the bottle is a burden, trigger point tearing him apart. You are always told to aim true, if it’s not the truth that guides you, then what? 

Standing on the podium in the middle of the terrace, string lights floating like lanterns that hang above them, Renjun feels graced with such elegant deeds. He turns his attention to the man in a white, velvet brass suit, a faceless target that Renjun deplores in seeking revenge, vengeance in whatever cruel, twisted demands he’s offered— in the end it’s the same, no matter the way he kills; the gut wrenching twist of a knife along the road that bends double-sided when cut across. Or the tender-hearted slit that ruby red and coherently fastening death’s chains in a bind, escaping mauve and sapphire gems eager for the sunset to bow down. 

Maybe Renjun did have a passion for madness, when it called his name twice-fold in his sleep and he yearned for enchanted moral ambiguity. Who the fuck in the world shared what was right and wrong. In the world, there was no place to distinguish the kind-hearted from the wicked. 

Silence fills the terrace when the guests attention is gathered, and Renjun listens kindly to the last words of the man who stands in front of him. Actually, he pays no attention and clasps the once full bottle of Ricin condensed into a liquid-filled bottle now residing in the man’s hands. Glasses raised to the sky, and a toast. Renjun counts down: 5,4. Lips hovering the rim, was this the part of the story Renjun enjoys the most? 3,2—Rome has always been kind to him, if only he laid the paid it forward. 1—and together they drink, as half of the champagne is downed, probably causing troubles to his chest, biting away at his immune system. 

And so he waits. Finishes a quarter way of his Limoncello and realizes there was something wrong. He was supposed to be dead. And yet his target remains alive, and well continuing to finish his drink eagerly. Renjun never messes up. 

Limoncello splatters on the grass, leaking into the cracks of the cobbled terrace, and a stray bullet whizzes past his cheek. A gunshot rings in his ear, catching him off guard and he stumbles. Cradling the side of his face as blood smears against his cheek, guests scream and a second bullet flies into the host’s chest, Renjun’s target’s chest. “Shit.” He hisses, taking cover behind the buffet table. 

Fuck. There was someone else here, how did he not notice another assassin present? Or a stray hitmen perhaps collecting his pay for petty theft? Someone shrieks, as he peeks from above the cloth to see a guest pointing in horror. “He’s dead!” _Of course he was,_ he thinks sarcastically. That shot was perfect, breathtaking he dares to say. 

Renjun chuckles, chest scraping dirt at the bottom of the boot. Jaemin was going to kill him. He definitely fucked up. Well shit. 

  
  
  
  
  


It’s one in the morning when Renjun lunges into his hotel room. Throwing the gun holster strapped around his shoulder underneath his suit jacket, hitting the headboard of his bed. He feels limp, nauseous almost with exhaustion maybe it was the lingering jet lag and lack of sleep he’s been getting in the past week. His cheek still stings but he endures the pain and wets a towel from the bathroom rack and the blood has already dried up. Renjun’s phone rings, not the hotel room phone as it’s always been, the device stuck underneath his pant legs vibrates and slides the green answer button. “Hello?” he calls out cautiously. 

“Is it done?” 

Renjun scoffs to himself, not bothering to turn on the lights as he slumps back into the armchair next to the window--chiffon drapery materializing in a pile below the floor. “There was someone else.” He starts, ‘shit’ mumbled under Jaemin’s breath. “The Ricin, it didn’t work. Someone must’ve swapped the drinks before the toast.” 

“And your target?”

He feels as if he’s gathering grains of sand through his fingers as he holds the phone in his hand, Renjun’s knuckles rivet on agony when he clutches the phone to his ear. The whole suite is terribly silent. A shudder erupts down his spine, and he gathers himself from the armchair, striding slowly over to the balcony. “Dead, shot dead center in the heart.” Renjun forces a chuckle, “it was a good hit. Nice and clean too.” 

Jaemin clicks his teeth, “Praising the enemies are we now, Renjun?” 

Renjun hums, nearing the drapes. He doesn’t even realize that he’s holding his breath while Jaemin continues to speak. Gun tucked under his belt, stuck between the lines of fabric in his dress shirt, as he whips the line of curtain wide open as the moon howls at the sudden disturbance. “Don’t be foolish, it’s nothing but mere admiration for the asshole who stole my target.” he harshly rattles off, unlocking the balcony door, one hand instinctively curling behind his back to reach for his gun as he steps out onto the porch. 

Poking his head out to check both sides, Renjun sits back on the brick wall, catching his breath. No one was there, his whole room was empty except for him and perhaps the weight of loss deprecating his bones, smashed to dust. He inhales Rome’s repugnant, saccharine air, the city becomes an oasis, his own playground when it’s nighttime. “Is everything alright?” Jaemin interrupts. 

“Yeah.” 

“So, what are you doing to do?” 

Renjun only has one choice, and yet Jaemin questions his abilities because after all the years they’ve known each other, he enjoys the provocation. “There’s only one thing I can do, kill him and bring his head back to Seoul.” 

He can hear the smirk forming on Jaemin’s lips. Satisfied, he finally answers: “Good.” 

  
  
  
  
  


Tokyo is a monsoon, Renjun has no fears. Time comes and leaves in the single snap of a finger. There are typhoons that accompany early autumn’s, the grotesque stench of death that’s silence is uglier than what meets the eye. Bits of winter begin to show when Renjun arrives. It’s a last minute stop, a cheap economy ticket to Japan. The first night in Ginza, Renjun sits at a corner booth at the Ramen shop in the inn he stays in, the owner kindly agreeing to house him for three days before he makes his next stop to New York. 

He enjoys a hearty, full course meal of Tamago Kake Gohan, Gyudon and a bowl of miso soup, and there’s a fire that roams in his belly, escalating to the tips of his fingers when he brings the steaming soup of soup to his fingers. The owner of the inn takes care of him, meanwhile Renjun plans the fifth new declarations to attain to kindling mankind’s righteous god-like properties. A painter's hands become their very own nightmare when their hands streak with failure. 

And so Renjun paints with anger, currant red staining his palm. The point of his fingers meet the bony, rouge tinted chisels into your mouth, Tokyo’s monsoon waters your tears away. 

  
  
  
  
  


The 24/7 diner five blocks from the inn is warm, an izakaya that provides Squid Tempura and Hiyayakko at all hours. Renjun dips a pinky finger into his soy sauce, tasting the saltiness when it crawls up and down his tongue. He orders a side plate of Nigiri, and a bottle of sake. It would be his last day in Tokyo before he followed the route to New York, Jaemin had given him orders to fly to the states, in case he’s being followed, by whatever — whoever it was that he met in Rome. The shallow sake glass gently cuts into his palm as he tips the rim of the bottle before setting it down. Renjun wets his lips. He should enjoy himself; get drunk over sake while chowing down his guilt with Nigiri. 

He wonders about, lazily gripping his chopsticks as he imagines the hidden figure, escaping behind the Villa’s pillars after taking the shot. Renjun introduces the source of disgust tiptoeing through the ribcage and hidden underneath the hardened bone of his clavicle where it makes haste to the anger growling at the bottom of his throat. There’s a light chime of the door, footsteps heavy, but light enough that Renjun doesn’t turn to greet whatever stranger stumbles his way. And so, he remains face forward, finishing the cup of sake, swiping his bottom lip before setting it down. 

There’s someone next to him, and Renjun remembers the presence, the scent of rosemary pigment splattering the insides of a child’s galore. And there’s quiet recollection in the scrapbook Renjun withholds from his memories before it cracks and he stares at himself in the mirror; feeling nothing more but bitter loathing. “You took my shot.” Renjun says quietly. 

A hand rubs against the counter table. “Huang Ren Jun.” 

The sake bottle almost slips through his hands, taken aback. “How do you know my name?” Renjun demands sharply. 

The bottle is snatched from his grasp in lieu of a response, and a few moments pass in silence as the other man pours himself a cup of sake. “Huang Ren Jun, twenty years old. Born in Jilin City,” he repeats, and Renjun isn’t sure whether to applaud him or reach for the unloaded gun in his shoulder pocket. He speaks in Korean, light and fluent like he grew up speaking eloquently. 

“You did your research.” Renjun praises, picking up his chopsticks to take a bite of Shrimp Tempura. “Was I that unforgettable since Rome?” 

He makes a noise of excitement, like Rome was filled with promising memories that they shared together. “Ah, Rome. I do apologize for the mess, shooting you was not my intention.” 

“It wasn’t? What were your intentions then? To have my blood decorate the Villa’s cobbled terrace?” Renjun challenges, and the izakaya owner suddenly rounds their corner in collection of payment.

As Renjun begins to stand up, so does he. His height is immeasurable by saggy clothing, but Renjun’s knife still finds its mark in the owner’s eye. The owner lets out a scream and stumbles blindly, head hitting the back of the counter and resounding with a delicious crack before his limp body slides to the ground. 

Renjun moves to unsheathe his gun but he's two steps ahead. Before Renjun can lift a finger, there's a gun tipped under his chin to tilt his head forward, and then Renjun finally sees him. Caramel brown hair loose around the wisps of his ear, sepla sucks the blood out of his eyes, orbiting around sienna blues as the izakaya’s bar light christens the cut underneath his eyelid. If Renjun wasn’t one trigger away from having his brains blown out, he might consider him to be devastatingly handsome. 

“Kill me,” Renjun spits out. There’s blood tangled in his hair and blood burning his tongue, and as he snaps, the metallic craving dissolves like sweet cotton candy in his mouth. 

The other man just chuckles, the butt of his gun digging under Renjun’s chin. “Now that wouldn’t be any fun would it be? If I painted you into the diner, like a pretty doll, a pretty dead doll?” he coos, and Renjun’s belly storms a hurricane, acid rain dancing along his skin. 

“I’m not afraid.” 

“Of course you aren’t,” He says, and the cool knead of metal under his chin kisses him one last goodbye as he stands up. “If you aren’t afraid, then chase me. Chase me, Huang Renjun.” he says softly. 

And then he’s gone. And Renjun truly understands what defeat tastes like, the diner in ruins, a dead body under his name. He has lost. 

  
  
  
  
  


“Lee Donghyuck.” Chenle tells him later that night. Renjun covets the quiet want, the cutting gaze that cools down in a matter of minutes. _Lee Donghyuck._ A name that tastes like Venus de Milo, marbled and bronze glitter around his eyes, and Renjun chases away the keening wander. 

  
  


  
  


Assassination has always been a form of art. It’s the trigger pull of a gun that decorates the canvas, an ombre of psychedelic washes that twirl the paintbrush, matted against the woven cotton. Renjun happens to be an aesthete, endearingly fansicated of beauty and art’s natural aesthetic. Some nights, in the flat he rented for three months on the streets of Rue de Rivoli he would sit in front of an earthy-emptied canvas streaked with starlight from the studio’s open blinds. Fingers smudged with Pinot Noir and Chardonnay as he paints with vacuousity 

Jaemin’s silhouette visited him when the night drew to an open audience, Cabernet Franc stroking the edge of his hip, pushing through his collarbone. Paris widens your gaze, acrylic brandishing the bottom of your lip, indenting the arch of your back to meet Pont Alexandre III. Renjun’s mouth comes to the bridge, knife to his side and he is unable to breathe. 

That was years ago, and so Renjun continues the ritual: every bit of the memory is pasted to a black page of the scrapbook; bidded to be kept and sworn in secret. 

It’s only his second time visiting New York City, the first time was for leisurely play after resting in Brooklyn for a week to recover after he broke his wrist attempting to escape a job gone wrong. Jaemin wasn’t happy after hearing the news and forced him to stay with Chenle and Jisung who were residing in a shabby walk-up apartment in front of the halal food cart that sold the best beef gyros and falafel, juice dripping down your chin with every bite. 

Renjun purchases a ticket to the The Metropolitan Museum of Art, his english is fluent enough from spending a few years in training, living in Vancouver with an old friend who met tragic ends, but that’s a story never meant for the audience. He keeps a low profile, mingling with the crowd of tourists, as the guide speaks in english, leading them to the first exhibit.

Renjun silently follows, holding onto the brochure he had picked up when he first walked in. The khaki, cork flooring almost soundproof, as Renjun steps into the European paintings floor, it’s already busy, spectators behind the yellow lines admiring from afar. 

“It’s beautiful isn’t it.” A nearby tourist asks in thick-accented english. Renjun nods, politely, unable to come up with a good enough before he moves away. 

He stands in front of the oil painting. The sun from the awnings of the beams, crisscrossing and running through the ceiling glisten against the painting. But from the little sunlight it offers, rich, lascivious copper, gold, silver pigments bounce against the rim of the painting in the glass case. _The Death of Socrates_ , it reads on the engraved silver tag filled with history that sets stone into the future. The hemlock, reddened in the cutthroat shade of ruby gold vase in Socrates hand smolders.

His fingers trace the writing of the tag sitting in front of Renjun, skimming over words. “Following me all the way to New York, isn’t that being a bit coy?” 

Donghyuck steps to his side, and Renjun gives a side-eye to his appearance; silk blouse, lantern sleeves held by Asprey cufflinks. Light-washed Milano brown chinos that hug his waist, a cheap silver earring on his left side. Freckles scatter his bronze skin, like rose gold. He looks elegant, perfectly fit in a crowd of artisans touring a museum in the middle of the day. Renjun feels dumbfounded and underdressed in his simple olive green trench coat, his hair escaping from behind his ear when he looks down his brochure, diverting Donghyuck’s gaze. 

“Isn’t that what you wished for? To be chased?” Renjun answers, grip tightening. “Or am I wrong, Lee Donghyuck?” 

A gleeful smile sparks the hook of his mouth, pulled to the brink of the sea levels. “You’re quite correct, how much digging did you have to do to learn my name?”

They continue onto the next painting, Renjun outlines the _Garden at Sainte-Adresse_ , rich and turbulent shades of teal reveratate against the shells of yellow and orange under Donghyuck’s pupils. “Enough to know your full name and the bare minimum.” 

Truth to be told, having Jisung spent over the phone at midnight with Chenle presumably by his side requesting for him to uncover as much as he can about Donghyuck was stressful, there wasn’t much about him in the databases, he seemed to be lone contract killer, no third-party included under his documentations; or whatever was left. “Is that so, I’m honored then.” Donghyuck moves forward, and it’s Paris doubling back against his chest, moonlight painting terror. “Keep on walking and no one gets hurt.” he whispers into his ear, knife pressed against his neck, icy-cold hands sliding down his back. 

Stopping at a new painting, _Venice from the Porch of Madonna della Salute_ wears its candescent skin, painting the waters and canals that Renjun has visited several times before. Mounted in halcyon-gold frame, as Donghyuck wistfully stares, “Venice is a beautiful city,” 

“More memorable than Rome?” Renjun asks. 

“Don’t spoil the mood Renjun-ah.” He chides, the belly of the knife grooving into the nape of his neck and Renjun swallows. 

He continues through the rest of the floor, stopping to commend each painting, Donghyuck conveying minimal thoughts, steel against his neck digging further and further the more crowded the museum grows. “Let me go, and this will be a secret between the two of us.” Renjun says, and Donghyuck raises a brow. 

“Not everything has to go your way,” 

“I’ll hunt you down, and skin you alive.” Renjun threatens, and Donghyuck steps back. 

“Catch me if you can Renjun-ah.” his voice echoes in the breeze, and Renjun turns to meet their final destination. No view of a brunette standing out from the busy crowd, and he feels helpless, just like he’s slipped from his grasp. Renjun appeases, the sharp corners of the brochure cutting shallow into his palm. The _Penitent Magdalene,_ shadows full of warmth and tawny dim over a painting of a woman huddling by candlelight. Sorrow looks like a blessing, and Renjun is hollowed by the reminiscence of abandonment, and Donghyuck becomes the new haunting in his dreams. 

  
  
  
  
  


The shower burns him. He lets his body melt like the torrid flames, and he’s the one thrown into the fire burning alive. Oh, how tables have turned. Renjun feels humiliated, not once, not twice but three times consecutively he’s been knocked down by a stranger who seems to know too much about him. Lavender scalds his legs as he scrubs, and his fingers rinse the nape of his neck, and the phantom touch where Donghyuck’s knife cornered him in the public, surrounded by thousands of people. Shame reddens his cheeks as he throws a fist to the shower wall. Blood wets his tongue, bringing his knuckles to his mouth, Renjun turns up the knob to the shower, the glass door frothing up. 

He wonders what Donghyuck’s blood tastes like, the russet flush of his skin torn between his teeth. And slowly, Renjun sees stars, penetrating his eyes and copper slices it’s way to freedom. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


Singapore is humid, but it’s a gentle kind of heat that leaves Renjun wearing short-sleeves and even daring himself to leave his legs bare when he goes outside. Jaemin insists that he accompanies Chenle and Jisung through Singapore, concerned ever since New York City. Only Renjun knows that the real reason why Renjun isn’t dead, death ruled by accidental suicide is being he’s Jaemin’s best assassin and cares in a childish, endearing sort of manner. Thus, Renjun feels thankful as he downs the rest of his beer, frigid chills running through his veins as sweat hooks down his thumb. A plate of Laksa and Chili Crab arrives at his table, as Jisung reaches for his chopsticks to take the first bite eagerly. 

Chenle lowers his Ray Ban aviator sunglasses, covering half of his eyes, long eyelashes fluttering wakeless, nudging an empty dish for Renjun to start eating. “He couldn’t have followed you here, stop worrying, goddamn.” 

Renjun snorts, tampering with his collared shirt—he had taken the risk of popping a few open buttons as Singapore's heat had spiked around this time of the year. “I know, but I would rather be aware then have my beer laced with poison. Better safe than sorry.” He points out, resting his chin on his palm while looking out the open windows, panning around the rooftop of the restaurant. Marina Bay Sands is overlooked from below, the water ripples in the reflection of chalice and pink silver against the colossal buildings, he could probably swallow the whole city from there. 

Jisung takes another bite of the crab, before adding: “Renjun-hyung, you should be more careful. I’m worried about you.” 

Taking a gentle hand, Renjun strokes his hair affectionately as Jisung winces playfully and swats his hand, “Don’t be worried, I’ll be fine.” He sits back, and watches Chenle feed Jisung a heap of spicy noodles, rubbing the inside of his wrist intimately. Renjun almost feels as if he’s interrupting, a stolen moment ever since the years past in the streets of Mercato di Campagna Amica.

“Eat.” Chenle orders, eyes igniting with persistence and Renjun surrenders and takes a bite of the already filled plate courtesy of Jisung. 

Renjun sees the dash of shadow flee from the bar, a figure once leaning on the counter, across from the table where the three of them sat. He shudders, the smell of gunpowder, and Donghyuck surely must’ve done that one purpose. The first rule of assassination is to leave a tracable scent. Renjun rubs his eyes, maybe he wasn’t getting enough and was simply hallucinating. The rest of the evening, he keeps his guard up as Singapore’s candied aroma calms him down and Renjun wishes to see the sea green, cyan and penchant ivory fill the waters, bringing him closer to home. 

  
  
  
  
  


Jaemin recommends Paris, with a vicarious grin loosened around his mouth. Chenle suggests he stay in Singapore for another week before they move onto Prague. Jeno proposes Amsterdam and so Renjun books an economy flight to the Netherlands. He stays one night in an expensive hostel, clutching his laptop while surfing the internet with hotspot warming up the comforters by his side as he researches bookstores in Amsterdam.

He’s certain that Donghyuck will appear, he leaves no trail, but there’s always a hidden message in the taunts, and banter he wields like a third arm. The city is vibrant, friendly and easy to navigate through. He pays for three nights in a quiet neighborhood, two blocks away from a dog park. Renjun finds himself on the first night, taking a slow walk down to the park, petting a few dogs.

No skepticism or uncertainty is worn like a proud badge as he approaches the owners, and Renjun is reminded of the social skills he’s acquired through the years from international travels. His Dutch is a bit rusty, but plays it off excellently with small talk. 

Renjun is able to walk around safely without having to turn his back every moment he feels the shadow taunting him, or the moonlight facading against the bicycle racks he continues to pass by. 

Jaemin calls him later that night, “lock your door, and leave the do not disturb sign on your doorknob.” He instructs. 

He rolls his eyes, “I’m not dense, this isn’t my first time. Amsterdam is the least of places he would think about.” Unless he’s in the wrong, and Donghyuck is already here in the city waiting for Renjun to be lured out of his hiding place. Except he isn’t hiding, he’s simply waiting for the right moment. 

Jaemin continues to fret, almost like a doting parent agonizing over their first child leaving the house for college. Renjun hangs up, promising to answer the phone again if he calls. 

The next day, he finds the bookstore he wishes to visit, and it turns out to only be a good walk, over a mile from the hostel he’s staying in. The walk is good for his muscles, Renjun has always been slim, naturally athletic due to the months of training when he was a teenager. Though he does manage to get out of breath every now and then, Amsterdam’s warm sunshine feels like a blessing as he crosses the street. The bell rings when he swings the heavy door open, alerting the cashier of his entrance as he waves kindly. Renjun is hit with a sweet, musky smell of papyrus and ink and he walks mindlessly down the aisles. 

He peels open a thicker book, binded by thick parchment and inhales. “May I recommend The Discovery of Heaven?” 

“Donghyuck,” Renjun sighs, closing the book shut as he turns his head to meet him only two steps to his right. No visible weapon, he wouldn’t dare slit his throat at a high-risk place like this— filled with cameras and too many witnesses. “I never knew you had a passion for reading, first European art and now books. I have yet to learn more about you.” 

Donghyuck laughs, which Renjun had yet to hear until now. It’s brilliant, settled in sunflowers glowing around his head like a halo. And for a minute, shades of butterscotch and the tuscan sun illuminate around the edges of his eyes, lined with smokey eyeshadow. Before it turns into molten lava is ashen, rumbling like an earthquake and tearing the ground apart. A soft turtleneck covering his neck, as his faded silver hair appears in a cloud around his forehead, forever falling in round tendrils. 

“If you take your time, I might be able to teach you more.” Donghyuck whispers, pastels of creamy white benevolent in his line of vision. 

“Are you sure you’d be able to handle me Lee Donghyuck?” Renjun frowns blithely to see the grin snag away from his lips. But it stretches, creasing with saturation of Amstel River, further and further into danger. _The better question to ask is, could Renjun handle him?_

And so he simply hands a thicker book, the printed letters on the rough, black cover feel sleek in Renjun’s hands. Donghyuck leans in, hand resting on the bookshelf and he’s once again backed into another corner, unable to be let out of the cage created by Donghyuck’s teeth, the knot of his arm becomes the bars. Lock and key leaves Renjun starving for an unornamented touch. Fuck, he doesn’t what he wants. 

“We may just have to find out ourselves.” Renjun devours him whole, whiskey paints his nails, masking the coarse pressure against his hip as Donghyuck draws him in. And he remembers. He remembers the chase, the silent deal. He wants to kill him, turn his throat into a mangled mess, body pressed into Amsterdam’s soil. 

Renjun pushes him away, book clattering to the carpet floor barely making a sound as the cashier peeks his head into the aisle as he runs in hurry, “thank you!” he numbly says, fleeing out the door and sprinting down the street. He wants to fly, fly away from Amsterdam or Rome, or even Singapore and maybe sink into the deep hell’s of an open grave. 

He’s bent over, regaining his breath, sweat dripping down his jaw that he’s lost count of the blocks he’s run by. Renjun distinguished the hunger from want, to a possessive need. Desideratum glossed over, and he knows that Donghyuck was better dead than alive. 

“Huang Renjun, there’s a package waiting for you downstairs.” The front desk calls him later that night, and he hustles to the lobby, nearly deserted this hour of the night. 

It must be Jaemin, with new instructions for his next job and Renjun almost gets excited, parched to leave Amstedam, already stenched with Donghyuck’s residence, unallowing for him to sleep easy at night. He accepts the parcel, sitting down on the lounge chairs off in the corner, near the hostel dining area. He rips open the packaging with his fingernail, running through the thin paper.

Inside is a book, as it reads familarily; _The Discovery of Heaven._ Renjun drops the book against the tile, raising for the nearby guests to gaze in his direction. He doesn’t want to pick the book back up, but eyes are all around him, and he’s sure this was all of Donghyuck’s plan. And there he goes, always one step ahead of Renjun. Because it angers him, drives a wedge into his chest and cracks open his ribcage to let out all of his desires and wrath. 

He returned to the front desk, waving around the book. “Did you happen to see the person who dropped this off?” 

The receptionist shakes his head “unfortunately it seems to have been dropped off an hour ago, no one was around so they must’ve left it with your name and hostel number.” 

And Renjun freezes, he knows his exact room. Probably sitting in of the internet cafes outside his mini deck, observing from below with a book in hand a pair of binoculars with the perfect view. He wonders how long Donghyuck has been in Amsterdam, tracing his every move. For a second, the rush of exhilaration soils his judgment, and Renjun feels dizzy. 

What the fuck does he do know? 

  
  
  
  
  


A piece of notebook paper falls out of the book when he throws it on the duvet of his bed, swaying to the floor. Renjun picks it up, and neat handwriting— Chinese and he almost sniffles a boisterous laugh. Was he trying to show off? 

**_Find me in Hong Kong._ **

Underneath is an address, and a series of numbers. He recognizes it to be a random area but Renjun doesn’t dare to try and call the number. Instead he crumbles up the paper and throws it against the wall. _Shit._ Words spill out of his mouth, and Renjun wants to kill again and so he calls Jaemin to find him an open job in Hong- Kong. There was no way he was letting Donghyuck win. 

  
  
  
  
  


In Barcelona there’s Jeno and Jaemin, and the seaside and the siren’s song is something of Donghyuck everlasting vestige. When Renjun runs his hands through the grassy patches and rocks as he dips his toes into the shallow shores, he can see the glisten once a mirror in Donghyuck’s eyes. 

He tries to forget him when he’s on the patio of Jaemin’s chateau probing over the sea shore, eating two plates of Paella. Or when he wears a cap, riding low on his face as he walks with Jeno in the early morning through the fish markets. 

First comes the painting that he spends hours in the studio of their chateau, closed in and away from the bay. Only to find himself, broken and mangled by his claws, and Donghyuck leading the way with puppeteer strings. Then his hands turn into scissors, scratching his skin, kneading into flesh as he repaints the sea with mulberry and Renjun discovers solitude. Jaemin steps through the mess, not bothering to sweep the mess of broken canvases and snapped paint brushes. 

He was an artist, and he doesn’t cry, his tears wash away with cerulean, and indigo as he fights back the urge to bleed. Donghyuck appears in his dreams three hours later. And Renjun wordlessly brings a hand to his jaw, sword to skin in a ravishing manner. Daunting, and immortality has never looked sweeter. 

_Have you missed me?  
  
_

The address leads him to a bar in Lan Kwan Fong, a district rich with dark alleys and nightclubs and bars. Neon signs becoming tunnel vision as he walks in the busy streets, drunken tourists having their fun. Renjun lived in Hong Kong for half a year before moving to Seoul, granted that he will be forever tethered to Jilin City. It’s not yet his playground to conquer, but he knows enough of his way that there’s no need to ask a local, or speak in rough Cantonese to help him find the bar. 

The bar is quiet, when he first steps in. Renjun instantly recognizes the back of Donghyuck’s head as he greets the host before being led to sit in the bar seating. He’s reminded of Tokyo, the cutting edge of the knife bulging out of the owner’s eye, the crack of a neck dilute to Donghyuck’s innocence. “You came.” He seems relieved, and Renjun slaps the piece of paper to the counter. 

“You knew where I was, you knew everything, my number, my hostel room. So why don’t you just fucking kill me already?” Renjun surges, and Donghyuck hands him a shot of liquor. 

“It’s not poisoned.” He says, when Renjun eyes him hesitantly. “Because where’s the fun in killing you, especially when you seem to be able to put up a fight.” 

“Is that it?” Renjun wipes his mouth, after downing the whole shot. It burns, tingles his whole tongue. 

“And if I say yes?” 

“Then just kill me already. And I won’t put up a fight.” What was he saying? What bullshit was he spewing, the second rule is never show mercy or any sign of weakness. But here, Renjun is willing to die, not even in his hometown with pride. 

Donghyuck laughs quietly, refined and suppressed but Renjun still mourns for his loss when he listens to it for the second time. “How many promises can you keep now Renjun-ah?” 

“This will be my last.” 

Donghyuck pays for the bill, as the host comes around the counter. Thin faced, dainty in a discerning demeanor, as he hears the whispers of a name: ‘Sicheng’. He ambled like a dancer, graceful, almost deft enough to be an assassin, and Renjun’s curiosity takes over. 

“My apartment is upstairs.” Donghyuck tells him, as he slides in his chair, awkwardly following behind as he reveals a hidden door to a set of stairs. 

The walk is quiet, as he takes him to an open floor and pushes the door open to reveal a loft, spacious and the windows are left open as a generous gust of wind plows back his forehead. “Is this yours?” 

“For now, yes. A good friend of mine was kind enough to let me borrow it.” 

Renjun nudged in the direction of downstairs, “Sicheng?” 

Donghyuck throws his coat onto the living room sofa, not yet ready to sit down. “Jealous?” 

He pushes his chest, leaving him off guard. “Do you wish me to be?” Renjun grieves for power, churning into his stomach. Donghyuck shakes his head, one foot and he swings a knife into his gut. Renjun panics and grabs the leg of the stool chair to block the hit. 

“On your knees is the only thing I wish for.” 

“How crude.” Renjun mutters, boosting his strength to bounce against the stool. Donghyuck follows, reapproaching with a side kick as it hits his thigh and he grunts. 

Renjun blindly punches at his neck, and he scored as Donghyuck rubs his cervix. Another punch to the jaw, this time square into Renjun’s mouth as he bleeds. His mouth full of metal, scarlet red against the pearl white of his teeth. Now, the knife is thrown off underneath the table, and Renjun is trapped, unable to crawl on his back to reach for it. 

Fists are tossed in the air, one hit to his temple and a counterattack to the nose. It goes like this: for every hit Renjun pleads, Donghyuck murders twice. And god, it feels good. He wants more of it, and so he bites on his tongue before bringing Donghyuck’s fingers to his mouth. He gasps, knee into his thighs as he fits around perfectly. Renjun scratches the grine of his collarbone, and there Donghyuck appears to be ethereal. Like a god of death racing on his chariot ready to plow Renjun down. 

“More,” he rasps. Donghyuck cradles the side of his face, and maybe there’s a kiss or it’s the wet feel of saliva when their tongues meet. Or Renjun could be seeing, feeling things and it’s the buzz of a fist hugging his chest. Let him be broken apart, and may Donghyuck ruthlessly build him back together. 

“My god, you’re fucking gorgeous.” He swears. 

“Shut the fuck up.” Renjun is powerless, as Donghyuck suddenly scoops him up, head thumping to his chest as he walks over to the bed. 

“Do you need bandages? Rubbing alcohol?” He asks, and he lets his hands drop, turning the other way. 

“I’m a fast healer.” 

“Then sleep.” He kisses the indent of his shoulder, and Renjun repeats the process; rebirth of a Phoenix, lying in the bedsheets of Hong Kong. Donghyuck sleeps soon, snoring into the pillow softly. 

For the first and last time, Renjun has no dreams. 

  
  
  
  
  


It’s almost like punishment, when he rises to an empty bed. He doesn’t hunt him down, maybe a few months ago he would’ve made a plan, called Jeno who’s probably worried sick about him. He should at least call Chenle, for him to report to Jaemin that his body wasn’t rotting away in a penthouse. He washes his face, changing into the various options to wear. He notices the fresh set of bandages, a baby bandaid stuck to above his eyebrow. 

Renjun almost wishes that he had given a few last words, anything more memorable than a forgotten kiss, or whatever happened last night. In the end, it didn’t matter. And the chase would continue until one of them was found, or somehow they met again— accident or not. He finally does get in contact with Jaemin, who hustles a quick ride to the airport, and he’s departing Hong Kong in a matter of hours. 

Donghyuck remains hidden, when he travels back to Florence, or when he flies to Sydney to visit old friends. There’s no sign of him even in Berlin, a possibility of one of the cities he would’ve hit. And so he stops searching. And returns to business, and often Renjun finds himself staring into the stars, wondering if Donghyuck would appear among them. Forever destined to burn up in the atmosphere, and leave Renjun starstruck. 

  
  
  
  
  


His last stop is Prague. He’s seated in a round table with all four of his friends at his side when Yangyang’s back hits the empty chair. “We found him.” 

Renjun closes his book, doggy flapping a corner of the page to bookmark his spot before holding onto his straw hat in fear of the wind. “Where is he?” 

It’s been almost a year since they first met, a bullet sent to heaven in remembrance like a cherishable memory to share. “Seoul.” 

Jaemin takes a timid sip of his espresso. “Is it wise? For you to look for him?” 

Renjun sets down his glasses, once resting on the edge of his nose. He puts a hand up to the sky, covering the sunlight boring into his eyes. It was never wise to hunt down a wild lynx. But Renjun was prepared. “The final chase has begun.” He answers. 

The final canvas looks at Prague, stroking the last touches of apricot and umber as Renjun’s lines form the face of ambiguity. Blood blossoms, into the earth— there lies a flower. Lilac mixes with Donghyuck’s iris hands, slathered with paint. 

Seoul may be his city, his domain, but Renjun knows him like the back of hand, knuckles deep into obsidian black. So this was what true art was, the sentimental warmth of victory. And it all began with Lee Donghyuck. 

_Find me?_

_Yes._

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://mobile.twitter.com/gossamers__) | [cc](https://curiouscat.qa/gossamers_)
> 
> greetings. I hope you enjoyed this fic!! It’s honestly been a blast writing it, world building, writing Renjun for the first time! A chenji sequel is part of the plan so do look for that :) Locations are lightly inspired by killing eve!!
> 
> comments and kudos are deeply appreciated, I would love to know what you think <3


End file.
